Well, I wish I could say it was fun while it lasted, but it wasn't. Only my family is capable of making a week spent lying in a bed with Jack Daniels into an unbearable hellhole. But it's over now, and if the experience has taught me anything, it's that family vacations are, at best, overrated.
Saturday night, Dad took us to a cabaret show, where he got drunk, hit on one of the dancers, then ditched the two younger ones for an hour so he could gamble. If the fact that he was drunk surprises you, I invite you to put on the Dunce Hat and sit in the corner until you learn to stop being such a fucking idiot. I ended up spending all of five minutes in the brightly coloured clusterfuck before heading downstairs to wait it out with the two younger ones.
Yesterday, we boarded up and went back to the airport so we could finally, blissfully go home. Unfortunately, Dad's bag was five pounds to heavy, and since my bag was the lightest, he went through his bag and unloaded some if it into mine. Not that I mind, but anything that would get us home faster was all good.
One thing I didn't count on was that he would put every conceivable liquid/gel/banned substance into my bag for no reason. When they called me up to ask about my bag, he instead dutifully decided to handle it himself. As you can expect, he fucked this up just as badly as you would think. What really happened was that my bag got denied by customs and that they would have to just try to pass it through again. The story I got was that they found a banned substance in my bag, that I would need to be questioned, and that there was a possibility that I would be held in the terminal.
Naturally, this sets off my neurosis like a six year old pulling the fire alarm. Would they put me on the No-Fly List? Would I be fined? Was someone going to stick their finger in my funspot? Come to think of it, did I really care about that last one?
Well, this was all for naught, since I eventually found out that this was resolved twenty minutes later, but my Dad didn't bother coming back to tell me for half an hour after the fact because he was to busy chatting with the flight attendents.
The plane ride home was pretty uneventful: I finished off Sex, Drugs And Cocoa Puffs, I drank tiny cups of complimentary Coke, and we passed over Boston, where I waved to HotAndy. At least I think that was him. It's a bit difficult to spot someone in the middle of the night from 40,000 feet in the air.
Of course, it wouldn't be a vacation if my Dad didn't find one final way to be a colossal asshole. I wanted to get some cigars for two of my friends, so I convinced Dad to buy a couple boxes as my souvenire. But of course, when we finally get home, Dad changes his mind and decides that he suddenly HAS to have a box. Which leaves me with the decision as to to who gets cigars and who gets fuck all. Though to be fair, I should have seen this coming. Last time we came back from vacation, Dad told my entire family that I had Bulimia (which, for the record, I didn't), and my mom tried to put me in rehab.
However, I managed to get him back by going through his wallet while we were unpacking and stealing $58 american from him. Yeah, fun fact for the day: Like smoking, I occasionally shoplift and steal small, usless items because I am consciously aware of the fact that nothing would piss them off more. Well, that and the fact that while my Dad is rich, I'm poor as fuck. To be fair, though, it's usually nothing big. Think pairs of socks and keychains. Nothing I can actually use. I really just do it as a bg fuck you to them. So needless to say, this made me happy.
So in conclusion, never fucking again. No more family vacations. Ever.
P.S. from now on, I will refer to my Dad as Bitchtits. So basically, if I say something like "Bitchtits was a fucking dillhole this past week", I'm talking about Dad.